Page 72 of The Most Wonderful Crime of the Year
It was thewethat did it. Ethan watched Maggie start to speak—to argue. She could have fired off adozen pithy comebacks, but her eyes went soft and warm and she inhaled a rushed little breath before letting it out, slowly. “We’re not wrong.”
Someday he was going to crush the people who had crushed her spirit. He was going to grind them into dust and not give it a second thought.
“I don’t suppose you could tell where the shots were fired from?” Her tone was hopeful but her eyes had doubts.
“Not without checking the grounds. But they didn’t come from the house. I know that much.”
“Okay! Good. That means we can probably cross Cece off the list. I doubt she could have fired the shots and then made it upstairs in time to scream as we came through the doors.”
“Agreed.” Ethan nodded. “Which leaves the inspector—”
“Who wasn’t here.” Maggie sounded disappointed.
“The lawyer, the butler, and the doctor.” He cut a look at her. “Hey, I think I know a joke that starts that way.”
She gave him an indulgent smile, but told him, “None of them have any kind of motive.”
“That we know of,” he said and she cocked her head as if to saytouché.
“We know Rupert and Kitty were in their room with the baby and the nanny,” Maggie said.
“Which leaves David and Veronica.”
“Victoria,” she corrected.
“Whatever. The duke and dukette.”
“Duchess.”
“Whatever. But what would their motive be? Aren’t dukes loaded?” Even though it was an excellent question, he watched Maggie look away. Like she was almost afraid to admit that—
“Sometimes money makes people careless, and careless people never realize that, eventually, money runs out.” But what Ethan heard wasSometimes careless people hurt careful people. “Besides, they both seemed really worried about...”
“Finding that will,” they said in unison and she lookeddown at her toes.
Ethan wanted to kiss the lip she was biting, but he settled for saying, “So all the people who have motive don’t have opportunity.”
“And the people with opportunity don’t have motive. Ooh.” The light was coming back in her eyes. “They could beStrangers on a Train–ing us.”
“OrOrient Express–ing.”
“OrOne-Eye Dog in a Snowstorm–ing...” she started, then cocked her head at his vacant expression. “It’s a novella Eleanor published in 1982.” But then, suddenly, her face fell. She looked like a little girl at a carnival who had comethis closeto winning a prize. “But no one is a triplet.”
“That we know of,” he consoled and she beamed, and Ethan thought he might spend the rest of his life chasing the rush of making Maggie smile in that long, dark hallway, with the drafts and (possible) ghosts and cold wind howling right outside.
As they turned the corner and started toward their rooms, Ethan let his gaze drift to the window, frosty glass and inky black sky. Millions of stars and thousands of acres and the reflection of two people who had crawled and climbed and searched all day and yet had nothing to show for it.
Maggie made a sound and grimaced. “I look like I’m one long white nightgown away from being killed in a gothic novel.”
But Ethan simply said, “I’ll protect you.”
She laughed softly. “From a ghost?”
“From everything.”
And, suddenly, nothing was funny anymore. The drafty corridor was cold and still and even the wind stopped howling. Ethan forgot about murders and bullets and poison, about cruel fathers and feckless husbands and the fact that he probably didn’t deserve her, but he was going to have her, anyway—if she was foolish enough to want him. And it was looking—right there—in that moment—like maybe she did.
“Maggie...” He stepped closer and raised his candle. She had to see—she had to know. “Sweetheart...”
